Twice
by Lil'MissGoodyTwoShoes
Summary: Twice. Twice Molly Hooper has seen the stubble dotting Sherlock's chin; and twice she has shaved it for him.


_**Summary:**_ _Twice. Twice__ Molly Hooper has seen the stubble dotting Sherlock's chin; and twice she has shaved it for him._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I own zip, zero, zilch. Such a shame, really._

* * *

He looked tired. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock Holmes looked tired.

Molly had known him awhile, their acquaintance tracing back many years. But never before had she seen him look so tired, so defeated.

Said man sat hunched on her patterned sofa, his hands draped on his knees. Molly approached him cautiously, gauze in one hand, antiseptic in the other.

(The last thing they wanted was the world's only consulting detective dying of infection!)

She set to work cleaning his cuts and sewing them shut. His injuries we're few and far between, but his grief not so much.

It was quite ironic actually, that _he_ was the one plagued with such grief. After all, he wasn't the one mourning the death of his best friend, his ever faithful consultant, or her unruly tenant.

No, he was the one who had leapt to his death. He had won the game, made the final move. He had beat the bad guy.

Molly tugged at the thread in finality, having finished sewing the last of his cuts closed. She paused however, curiously examining the prickly hairs peeking out of his jaw. Never before had she seen Sherlock with any form of facial hair, much less stubble. But here it was, plain as day. The normally clean-shaven detective had little spots of _stubble_ on his face!

The dainty doctor rose to her feet and fetched a can of shaving cream and a fresh razor from her cabinet, before returning to the side of her dearly beloved.

"Hold still," she told him.

(Though she very much doubted he be going anywhere anytime soon.)

With careful strokes, Molly ran the razor down the length of his profile, dusting away the remains of his haggard appearance; she tackled every crack and crevice, every corner, chasing down each strand of short hair she could find, until she was finished. The infamous Sherlock Holmes, known for his dark, unruly curls, his striking blue eyes, and his spotless chin, was clean-shaven once more.

* * *

It was silly, really. She needed to get over herself.

For two years, she had worried herself sick, truly unaware of his whereabouts.

He had just up and left. No, "Thank you, Molly Hooper," or, "Goodbye, Molly Hooper." Nothing. But who was she kidding? This was Sherlock Holmes she was talking about. The man that had never uttered a, "Please," or, "Thank you," in his life!

Until he dropped by the morgue one day. He entered without his billowing Belstaff charade, or his demanding demeanor.

He entered on a cold slab, his crisp blue eyes closed to the world around him, his decadent lips sealed firmly shut.

Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, dead. Truly dead, this time: there was no magic pulley system, or timely cushion, or forged death certificates. This was the real deal.

He had been shot-shot in the head, straight through that brilliant brain of his. He hadn't suffered (as far as she could tell), but who knows, he wasn't the average human being either. It was quite possible he took note of the gunman's handle bar mustache, or his terrible dentistry, or his unfaithful wife, all the while bleeding to death.

For the last time, she traced his high, chiseled cheekbones, marveling at their angular, yet symmetrical, density.

For the last time, she ran her fingers through his knotted nest of curls.

For the last time, she brushed her glossed lips against his cold ones, the spark having long since left.

She was zipping the body bag closed when, once again, she noticed the knobby hairs poking out of his flesh. It just didn't feel right, for his chin to be untrimmed, unkempt, buried beneath the ground.

So, for the second time in a short while, Molly Hooper resolved to shave the stubble of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly scuttled about the lab, grabbing this and that. She finally set to work shaving his beard. It calmed her, soothed her, it brought her solace to drag the blade delicately across his flesh.

Soon, it all became too much for her, and she wept while she worked, her tears trickling down the avenue that was her cheeks; they came to a gentle stop on his placid face, buried in the waves of thick cream.

She would miss him. She really would.

**End.**


End file.
